Elizabeth I, The Virgin Queen A Tudor Documentary part 4

In 1588, Elizabeth's navy defeated the Spanish Armada in the greatest English victory since the Agincourt. The celebrations were long and magnificent. The procession to the thanksgiving service at St Paul's Cathedral was the grandest since Elizabeth's coronation. The captured Spanish banners were hung up as trophies and a commemorative medal was struck with the inscription, God's winds blew and they were scattered. And the English really thought that God had fought on their side. They were the new chosen race, God's own Protestant people. England stood proud, and Elizabeth and her reign were at their zenith. It was the golden age of Elizabethan England. The great houses Elizabeth's courtiers built are a visible, tangible expression of their confidence, exuberance and wealth. Unlike her father, King Henry VIII, Elizabeth built no palaces, nothing. She'd no need to, because her courtiers and favourites built for her. Sir Christopher Hatton, the Lord Chancellor, already had a great house at Holdenby, but, he told Elizabeth, he would build another one nearby at Kirby that would be dedicated to her as a shrine to a holy saint. Elizabeth had ceased to be a mere queen, and she'd become instead, Gloriana, England's national icon. She was painted again and again, always dazzling, always glorious, always triumphant. Even in her late 50s, she has the face of eternal youth. But Elizabeth, the woman, was ageing, the goddess at feet of clay. Literature flourished as never before. Shakespeare wrote his first plays, some of them commissioned by the Queen. But new theatre brought new and dangerous ideas. One of Shakespeare's plays would soon be used in an attempt to overthrow her. She had ruled for 30 years, loved by her subjects, loyally served by her courtiers. But as she aged, a new generation was growing restless. She would have to fight as never before, to hang on to power. It is September 1588. Queen Elizabeth has been locked inside her chamber for some days. All attempts to contact her have failed, and the court is in panic. Despite fears to the contrary, the Queen is alive. But she is not well. I most humbly beseech your Majesty to pardon your old servant to be thus bold in sending to know how my gracious lady doth. For my own case, I continue still your medicine, and it amends much better than any other thing that hath been given me. With the continuance of my wonted prayer for your Majesty's most happy preservation, I humbly kiss your foot. Your Majesty's most faithful and obedient servant, our Lester. Elizabeth would never receive another of his letters. Robert Dudley, Earl of Leicester, favourite of the Queen, a friend and counsellor for the last 30 years, and the nearest thing she'd ever had to a lover, was dead. In the next two years, a succession of court notables followed Robert Dudley to the grave. Sir Francis Walsingham, Secretary of State and Spymaster Extraordinary. Sir Christopher Hatton, Lord Chancellor, Builder of Kirby Hall. Ambrose Dudley, Earl of Warwick, brother of Robert. Of the old guard, only William Cecil, Lord Burley, remained. The gaps in court and council would have to be filled. But the Queen had always hated change, and instead of bringing in new blood, she replaced fathers with their sons. Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex, was Robert Dudley's stepson. He was 21, vain, high-spirited, impatient and brilliant, with a fondness for duelling. He was much admired at court and was viewed by all as a man destined for greatness. He aspired to his stepfather's role of a great noble and a military leader. Robert Cecil was the second son of Lord Burley. He was 25, careful, astute and kind, with a fondness for corresponding in code. He was mocked, mostly behind his back, for his short stature and his hunched shoulders. But his mind was razor-sharp. He aspired to his father's role of statesman and political leader. Robert Cecil and the Earl of Essex were of the new generation, and the new generation had different ideas from the old. So Robert Cecil, for example, made a much sharper distinction between the service of the state and the service of the Queen than his father, William, would ever have done. And the Earl of Essex had much more grandiose ideas about the power and the independence of the nobility than his stepfather, Lester. They were both young men in a hurry, waiting impatiently for the aged Queen to get out of the way. And she knew it. Essex charmed the Queen, and she was flattered by his youthful attentions. But she was 55 and he was 21. If she loved him, it was partly as her gigolo, partly as her son. He was gifted, but he could also be immature and unruly. Like a strict parent, Elizabeth resisted his demands for a military command. Robert Cecil was already an MP. Elizabeth called him her elf, or, Lester his liking, her pygmy. She respected his political instincts, but she was wary of him and was never able to trust him as she had his father. She made him a privy councillor, but she stopped short of giving him his father's old job. The new generation would have to wait its turn. She continued to rely instead on the man who'd served her since the start of her reign, whom she trusted above all others, Robert Cecil's father, Lord Burley. I do entreat heaven daily for your longer life, else will my people and myself stand in need of cordial too. You are in all things to me, Alpha and Omega. She wouldn't let him retire, even when he was in his late 70s, gouty, deaf and visibly shrunk with age. But in the summer of 1598, Burley fell dangerously ill. Elizabeth sent him medicines, letters, and on one occasion she even fed him soup with a spoon with her own hand. To no avail. In September 1598, Burley died. For 40 years, Burley had carried the heavy administrative burden of running the day-to-day government of England. It wasn't as risky as the essentially noble role of the Queen's military lieutenant, which had been fulfilled by Burley's old sparring partner, the Earl of Leicester, but nor was it as prestigious. Which is why, in death, the bureaucrat Burley wears the third robes and the gilded armour that symbolise the role of the nobleman, a role that he'd shunned in life. I have this vision of Elizabeth coming to visit him when he was dying. There's this old woman stamping along the passage with her wig askew, with her pockmarked face disguised with horrendous white lead make-up, huge diamonds, bad-tempered and upset, and getting to his bedroom, and there's this poor old man breathing very heavily, hardly conscious. She must have been torn between the agony of losing a good advisor and the agony of losing a very close friend. It's like losing one's parents, however old one is. It's still the most ghastly shock. And for her, he was the closest thing to a parent. He kept a guiding wise hand on her shoulder all the way through her rather tempestuous youth and middle age, and suddenly that guiding hand was being removed. And, you know, she must have been very bereft. In 1596, England once again faced the threat of invasion. Spain remained the most powerful country in Europe, and King Philip was still determined to destroy Elizabeth and her island nation. In March, his army had captured Calais. Now he had troops within 20 miles of England, and a great fleet was gathering at Cadiz in Spain to transport them. Confronted with this new danger, Elizabethan England galvanised itself into action. The Queen set aside her doubts about military action and her courtiers their divisions, and it was decided to send an expedition to Cadiz to destroy the new armada in port before it had even set sail. The strategist and commander of the expedition was the Earl of Essex, but the man who financed it and organised it was Robert Cecil. Essex had finally got the military command he craved, and on the day he put to sea, Robert Cecil was at last confirmed as Elizabeth's chief secretary. The new generation had arrived. In the early hours of Sunday, 20th June, 120 English and Dutch ships attacked Cadiz. The Spanish were taken off guard. Their invasion fleet was destroyed. The town was captured and plundered for booty. Spain had again been humbled. England and Essex had triumphed. You have made me famous, dreadful and renowned, not more for your victory than for your courage. I care not so much for being queen as that I am sovereign of such subjects. Essex was now a popular hero, and the burning of Cadiz was built up into something to rival the defeat of the Spanish armada itself. But the armada only had a single heroine, Elizabeth. Cadiz, though, was Essex's victory. And at the service of Thanksgiving in St Paul's Cathedral, the congregation burst into spontaneous applause when the preacher sang Essex's praises to the skies. For Elizabeth, it was a novel and disturbing development. Her previous favourite, Lester, Essex's stepfather, had actually been hated. Now a man whom she had created was her rival in popular affection. But popularity was the basis of Elizabeth's monarchy. It could not be shared with a subject. As a first step, all further popular celebrations of Cadiz were banned. But London continued to glorify their new hero. Some preachers even compared him to Julius Caesar, the greatest of the Romans. The city that had adored the queen since the beginning of her reign had found a new idol. A wiser man than Essex would have mollified the queen by keeping a low profile. But Essex was not wise, and ambition and vanity got the better of him. He commissioned an engraving of himself in the style of a Roman emperor. A great challenge to the royal authority. He threw his weight around at court, objecting whenever Elizabeth honoured another courtier. And when the queen turned down his plea to launch another attack on Spain, he courted public support behind her back. Elizabeth was furious. The conflict came to a head when Essex and Elizabeth disagreed about who was to be Lord Deputy of Ireland. The queen contemptuously dismissed the earl's arguments. The earl turned his back on the queen, and the queen, irritated, boxed the earl's ears. At this point, the earl half-drew his sword on the queen. Now, to strike somebody within the precincts of the court was punished by the amputation of the right hand. To strike the queen was treason. But before the unthinkable could happen, the Lord Admiral interposed himself between Essex and the queen. The earl then withdrew to his country house, whilst Elizabeth was left to ponder the monster that she'd created. Elizabeth loved the theatre, but some plays were as much about politics as entertainment. Most dangerous was Shakespeare's Richard II, which dealt with the making and the unmaking of a king. I give this heavy weight from off my head. With mine own hands I give away my crown. With mine own tongue deny my sacred state. All pomp and majesty I do forswear. My acts, decrees and statutes I deny. God save King Henry. Unkinged, Richard says. Send him many years of sunshine days. The play tells the story of the deposition of the rightful anointed king, Richard II, by Henry Bolingbroke, his cousin and the military hero. Elizabeth identified herself passionately with the deposed king. I am Richard II, know ye not that, she's supposed to have said. She also thought that there were many potential Bolingbrokes around. Robert Cecil and the Earl of Essex told her to her face that they worshipped her. Behind her back they were looking to the future after her death. And, Elizabeth sometimes feared, they were plotting to depose her, just like Richard II. When Shakespeare's play was printed the following year, the deposition scene had been cut from the text. We can guess that the author and his publisher were given hints that they'd been wise enough to take. A new tragedy, bloodier than anything in Shakespeare, was now unfolding in Ireland. In August 1598, at Yellowford in Ulster, Irish rebels ambushed a column of English soldiers and cut them to pieces. 1,200 men lay dead or dying. It was the worst military defeat of Elizabeth's reign. The Catholic Irish had long resented the occupation of their country by Protestant England. There had been rebellions before, but this one was much more dangerous. It had the support of Spain. King Philip II was dead, but his son had inherited his father's zeal, the avenge for the defeats of Cadiz and the Armada. He planned to land troops in Ireland and to threaten England across the Irish Sea. The Queen would have to act. In spring of 1599, the largest English army of Elizabeth's reign landed on the east coast of Ireland. In command was her half-disgraced favourite, the Earl of Essex, who had pestered the Queen until she gave him the post. He wished to rehabilitate himself in the Queen's favour. He also wanted to show that he was a real soldier, able to draw his sword on the Queen's enemies, just as he'd half-drawn it on the Queen herself. But the first use that Essex made of his sword in Ireland was to employ it to usurp the Queen's kingly prerogatives by knighting, in defiance of Elizabeth's explicit instructions, 38 of his captains. Turning his sword against the Queen's enemies proved more of a challenge. For months, Elizabeth received little news from Ireland, and she became increasingly frustrated at Essex's failure to engage the enemy. If sickness in the army be the reason, why was not the action undertaken when the army was in a better state? If winter's approach, why were the summer months of July and August lost? If the spring were too soon, and the summer that followed otherwise spent, then surely we must conclude that none of the four quarters of the year will be in season for you. But Essex did not meet his enemy in battle. Instead, he and the rebel leader, the Earl of Tyrone, had a secret rendezvous near Carrickmacross. They talked for half an hour, alone and out of earshot of their officers. Then they parted on good terms. After six months in Ireland, Essex had spent 300,000 pounds and lost 12,000 men to disease and desertion. That was incompetence. Now he had made a secret deal with the rebel leader, the sworn enemy of the Queen. That was close to treason. Her reservations about her young courtiers began to look justified. They could not be trusted. Robert Cecil began a secret correspondence with James VI of Scotland. He had taken it upon himself to pave the way for James' succession to the English throne, thereby ensuring his own continuance in office. At first sight, it seems an extraordinary idea. England and Scotland were old enemies, and Elizabeth had executed James' mother, Mary Stuart. But James was the obvious heir. He was Elizabeth's closest male relative. He was an experienced ruler, he was a Protestant, and he already had two sons. Cecil told James if he accepted his advice and guidance, he could expect a peaceful accession to Elizabeth's throne. But Cecil had to proceed with care. The Queen had never named a successor and had banned all talk of the matter at court. The secret must be carefully kept. He must have worried about security in London, but I imagine that he would have been much more worried about security in Edinburgh. James I of England and VI of Scotland was notoriously indiscreet. And of course he was surrounded by some fairly loose-mouthed people. So it was important, I think, for him to use code and trustworthy messengers. He would never know whether the Queen, if she did find out officially, wouldn't have blown her top and sacked him. And secondly, of course, it was a splendid opportunity for his enemies to accuse him of treason and treating him with a foreign power. At ten o'clock on the 28th of September, an exhausted, mud-spattered rider arrived at Nonsuch Palace. He rushed up the grand stairs, through the garden presence chambers, pushing his way past startled gentleman ushers and outraged ladies-in-waiting, and burst, unannounced, into the Queen's bedchamber. There he found Elizabeth, newly risen, and still in her nightgown, without her wig, her make-up and her ruff. It was a sight that no man had seen in 30 years. Elizabeth the woman, without the trappings of Gloriana the Queen. And the man who had thus violated the image of Elizabeth's monarchy was Robert Devereux, Earl of Essex. It was an extraordinary affront to the Queen's honour. Essex had returned in panic, convinced that Cecil was engineering his downfall and desperate to plead his case. He was exhausted, ill, scarcely in his right mind. But the Queen was in no mood for forgiveness. Elizabeth had stayed remarkably calm when Essex burst into her bedchamber. Later that afternoon, the Earl was summoned for a private audience with the Queen, which quickly turned into an interrogation. Why, Elizabeth wanted to know, had he left Ireland without permission? Why had he made so many nights, in defiance of his express instructions? Why, above all, had he made a truce with that rebel and traitor, Tyrone? The Earl answered as best he could. And then Elizabeth was left alone to ponder what she should do. Towards ten o'clock at night, she gave orders that the Earl was to be put under a form of house arrest. The fall of the favourite had begun. Essex was summoned before a public tribunal. He spent 11 hours on his knees, whilst a list of his delinquencies was read out in front of an invited audience. The Queen could not bring herself to destroy her disgraced favourite completely. Instead, she sent him into a sort of limbo. She ordered him not to attend the Privy Council. She banned him from her presence. And she refused to renew his lucrative monopoly on sweet wines, which threatened him with bankruptcy. Essex was released to his London residence, Essex House. He was down, but he wasn't quite finished yet. He would make one final, desperate bid for power. He would rebel. The scheme was quickly hatched. The Earl would capture the City of London and the Tower. The Queen would be forced to summon a parliament and to impeach Robert Cecil, and Essex would be declared Lord Protector of England. It was a harebrained scheme, but it might just work. The Earl's military followers would provide the backbone of an army, and Essex was so popular with the people of London that he was confident that they would rise in his support. Essex wrote to James, seeking his support for the rising. The Scots king was too careful to commit himself, but sent Essex a reply in code, and dispatched two envoys to meet him. Essex had already done his deal with the rebel Tyrone, who had backed the Earl's rising, it was said, in exchange for power over Ireland. And he had the support of one of the London sheriffs, as well as five other disaffected nobles. To call the people of London to arms, Essex's henchmen bribed Shakespeare's company to stage a performance at the Globe. Essex chose the play. It was Richard II. This sceptre'd isle, this earth of majesty, this seat of Mars, this precious stone set in the silver sea, is now bound in with shame. With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds, that England that was wont to conquer others hath made a shameful conquest of itself. John of Gaunt is lamenting nostalgically for a lost England, a great country fallen into ruin. The stage is set for the deposition of a corrupt and overweening monarch by a once favoured and faithful nobleman. The audience were a mixed lot. Adventurers, ex-soldiers, papists, malcontents. But they shared a common resentment for Elizabeth and her England. Or was it Robert Cecil's England? And they had a common loyalty to the only conceivable alternative, Robert Deborah, Earl of Essex. Early the following morning, Elizabeth received a report that Essex had left his house at the head of a private army. They were marching up Fleet Street, calling the people of the city to arms. For the first time, Elizabeth was in personal danger in her own capital. The rebels were just two miles from the court. She acted quickly, ordering her forces to block the route to the palace by building a barricade near Charing Cross. She sent royal heralds through the city, proclaiming Essex a traitor. The sight of government troops and the heralds' cry of treason made Londoners think twice. They stayed behind closed doors. Essex's force was confronted by troops belonging to the Bishop of London. Essex's page and two others were killed. By nightfall, the rebels were in retreat, their hands or cloaks covering their faces to try to avoid recognition. Essex himself panicked and fled back towards Essex House. He barricaded himself in and set about destroying incriminating evidence. Including James's coded letter. Whilst outside, the Queen's forces trained cannon on the house. At 10pm, he surrendered. He was arrested, along with 85 of his co-conspirators, including the Earl of Southampton, Shakespeare's patron. When she received the news, Elizabeth retired to bed. Essex was tried within a few days of the rebellion. The verdict was a foregone conclusion. Guilty of high treason and condemned to a traitor's death. Only the Queen could confirm the sentence. It brought echoes of her past. She had agonised for months before authorising the execution of her cousin, the Duke of Norfolk. She had hesitated for years before finally confirming the death sentence on her fellow Queen, Mary Stuart. She told the French ambassador that she would willingly reprieve the life of her disgraced favourite and that she was partly to blame for allowing him to grow so bold. But it was clear, she said, that the danger from him was so great that he would have to die. Essex was the only man to challenge Elizabeth publicly and to her face, and he was the only one of her subjects to try to rival her in popularity. Curiously enough, it was Essex himself who got to the heart of the matter. Under interrogation, the Earl said that the state was not big enough for them both. Essex was executed on Ash Wednesday, 25th February, 1601. He was 34. It took three blows of the axe to remove his head. A change came over the Queen. For most of her life, she'd enjoyed what seemed like eternal youth. Now, at 68, she seemed suddenly old in mind and body. All the fabric of my reign, little by little, is beginning to fail. With his rival dead, Robert Cecil was now unquestionably the most powerful man in the country, and, behind the scenes, his plan for James to succeed Elizabeth was maturing. The King, writing in code, told Cecil that he could look forward to greater favour whilst he had the crown that he already enjoyed under Elizabeth. The future looked bright for Cecil, but the present was troubled. He'd never been popular. Now, the public really hated him for killing their hero, Essex. The regime was seen as stale and corrupt, and Cecil became the focus of blame for the country's many ills. A harvest had failed. The war in Ireland dragged on. Taxes were heavy, and the Queen's own popularity was also at an all-time low. For years, she had rewarded her favourite courtiers with grants called monopolies, taxes on everything from playing cards to soap. The policy aroused deep resentment in the impoverished population. We're familiar with this kind of combination of casual corruption and a government that's been in power too long. We call it SLEEZE, and the rot went right to the top. Elizabeth herself had been around longer than everybody else. At first, her motto, Semper Adem, Always the Same, had made her seem a rock of stability in a changeable world. Now, she was merely an obstacle to necessary reform. The unpopular Queen and her despised minister suffered a disaster. They lost control of Parliament. MPs were determined to break the hated monopoly system. The ageing Queen was forced to address Parliament in person to try to rescue the situation. If my kingly bounties have been abused, and if any in authority under me have neglected or perverted what I have committed to them, I hope God will not lay their offences in my charge. For I do assure you, there is no prince that loves his subjects better. There is no jewel, be it of never so rich a price, which I place before this jewel. I mean your love. And though you may have many mightier and wiser princes sitting in this seat, yet you never had, nor shall have, any that will love you better. It became known as the Golden Speech. It was Elizabeth's last great public address, and it was a consummate piece of politics. Elizabeth won the MPs over, not only by her unexpected announcement that she was going to suspend and investigate monopolies, but also by her language and sentiment. The MPs showed their gratitude by voting unprecedentedly heavy parliamentary taxation. Other good news followed quickly as well. There was victory in Ireland, a truce in the war with Spain, trade improved, and at last there was a good harvest. Elizabeth, too, seemed to rejuvenate. In August, she rode for ten miles and then went hunting. She was aged almost 69, and yet she boasted she was in better health than she'd been for ten years. It was an Indian summer, glorious but brief. It could not last. For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings. Let's talk of graves, of worms and epitaphs. Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes write sorrow on the bosom of the earth. By March 1603, Elizabeth was in serious decline. She was suffering from ulcers in the throat, fever and lack of appetite. Against all advice, she refused to go to bed. Cecil unwisely insisted that she must. Little man, the word must is not to be used to princes. But ye know that I must die, and that makes thee so presumptuous. If you were in the habit of seeing such things in your bed as I do when in mine, you would not persuade me to go there. Two weeks on the floor in the same clothes, Elizabeth asked her attendants to get her to her feet. But still she did not go to bed. Instead, she remained standing in total silence for the next 15 hours. She appeared already in a manner insensible, holding her finger continually in her mouth, with her eyes open and fixed to the ground. As Elizabeth's death approached, a young man was pacing the courtyards of the palace. He was Robert Carey, the queen's cousin, and he'd resolved to make his fortune in the new reign by being the first to let James know that Elizabeth was dead and that he was king of England. He informed James of his intention and told him not to leave Edinburgh. Then he returned to the palace to watch and to wait with the rest. Elizabeth was preparing herself for the end. The archbishop kneeled down beside her and examined her first of her faith. And she so punctually answered all his questions by lifting up her eyes and holding up her hand as it was a comfort to all the beholders. Then the good man told her plainly what she was and what she was come to. Though she had been long a great queen here upon earth, yet shortly she was to yield an account of her stewardship to the king of kings. At 10 o'clock at night on the 23rd of March, 1603, Elizabeth falls into a deep sleep. She never woke up. Three days later, James VI was proclaimed as Elizabeth's successor at Holyrood Palace in Edinburgh. England and Scotland were joined under one monarch. Elizabeth's body was brought by water from Richmond to Whitehall. There it lay for five weeks, watched over day and night by her ladies-in-waiting. Then it was taken to Westminster Abbey for burial. The funeral effigy on top of the coffin was so lifelike that from the great crowds lining the route, nothing was heard but a general sighing, groaning and weeping. Elizabeth the woman was dead, but the achievement of Gloriana, the great queen of England, lived on. When Elizabeth came to the throne, England was an insignificant country. When she died, it was a major European power. She had begun her reign by promising to avoid the mistakes of her sister Mary. By and large, she succeeded. Elizabeth had founded a national church and she inspired a national literature. Her father, Henry VIII, had reinvented the idea of England. Elizabeth became its living embodiment. Few monarchs have been better loved by their subjects. None has exercised a more powerful hold over the imagination of succeeding generations. The myth started within a few years of her death when the preface to the King James Bible hails her as that bright occidental star. Queen Elizabeth, the famous memory. And the star still burns bright.